Welcome to Burlesque
by MonPetitCoeur
Summary: Blaine Anderson was never one for parties or clubs. But when Wes and David dragged him to the Burlesque Lounge, a certain performer catches his eye. Suddenly, he kept coming back for more. AU.
1. I am a good girl

**Title: **Welcome to Burlesque

**Rating: M**

**Summary: **_Blaine Anderson was never one for parties or clubs. But when Wes and David dragged him to the Burlesque Lounge, a certain performer catches his eye. Suddenly, he didn't want to leave. At all. AU. _

**A/N: HA! OMG. I WROTE IT. DAMMIT. May or may not be continued. You tell me. I couldn't resist imagining Kurt doing **_**'I am a Good Girl.'**_** Too much of an opportunity to simply let it pass. Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>Blaine rolled his eyes for the umpteenth time that day.<p>

"Blaaaiiiiiinnneeee", a strict looking Asian man whined beside him. "Come on Blaine."

"_No_", came in Blaine's terse reply. "I mean it, Wes."

"Just this _once_ Blaine. Come on, just try it. Please?" _Wes_, as apparently he was called, shamelessly kneeled down in front of the curly haired guy and _groveled_. "Please, please, _please_. Please Blaine? Just this once? And you don't have to say yes ever again. Even better! You go with us tonight, and I'll make sure that you got that strip mall that you wanted. And we could even renovate it and stuff. I'll handle the negotiations and all the troublesome things that you clearly hate and _suck_ at, and you go with us and enjoy tonight", the guy suggested reasonably.

Blaine paused for a moment to consider the idea. Then, "No."

"Oh for _fuck's _sake Blaine! I swear you are such a—", he made a strangling sound. Blaine smugly grinned at his furious friend. It never failed to amuse him when he _intentionally_ blows Wes' fuse out. It's something akin to stepping on a landmine. Wes breathed deeply and counted from one to ten in his head. "Please Blaine? As your friend? We barely even get together anymore, much less the other Warblers. It's _Friday_, for heaven's sake. You ought to loosen up, if even just a little."

Sighing exasperatedly, Blaine threw down the papers he was reading. "_No_ means _no_, Wesley. How could I make that clearer for you?" He rubbed his temple. God, how thick was his friend, really? Feeling a headache coming on, his irritation increased. "Shit. I need a drink. My head's killing me."

That gave Wes all the more reason to persuade him. "See? See? You're completely _overworked_, man. So, get the stick off your ass and come and drink with us tonight. It will do you wonders, my dear old chap."

"Yes, Wes. Because a gay man would enjoy the sight of girls stripping and dancing in a vulgar way", Blaine answered sarcastically.

"I—what the—_David_", Wes carped. "David, David. Blaine's totally being a buzzkill again!"

"Wanker", Blaine grumbled.

David, an extremely rational and polite African-American, rolled his eyes at his friends' strange yet annoying banter. Why was he friends with those two again?

He impatiently swatted Wes' pleading hand off of his knee. "Oh come now Wes, stop that. You know I'm very ticklish in there." After which, he turned to Blaine. "And as annoying and controlling and selfish Wes may be, he is right. No-don't you dare sigh on me, boy. Listen. What's wrong with having a drink? We're— "

"You're inviting me to go to a _strip_ club!"

"—just going for a _drink_. And the place we're going to is _not_ a strip club!" Blaine stared at him with disbelief. "Okay, maybe it is. In a way. _But_, it's classier and they actually have a programme to follow through! From what we've heard _and_ experienced, there's singing and dancing. And they're pretty good, if I may say so myself. So, I know that you're not into females and we're pretty cool with that Blaine, it's just..."

"Just _one_ night, for old time's sake?" Wes pleaded. "There's nothing wrong with attending a club. Heck, some social elites actually attend them! And there are girls there too, in the audience. As David and I have been trying to tell you, we're going to have fun and indulge ourselves in some unique entertainment."

Blaine stared at them. Their expressions were hopeful and earnest. _Why were they pushing him anyway?_

He thought about it. One night. Just a couple of drinks. He was promised a night of good _safe_ fun. And the stress from work was kind of overbearing, anyway.

Hey, what has he got to lose?

"Fine." Wes and David both cheered and hugged each other out of sheer triumph and jubilant excitement. "Don't make me regret this."

"Oh, you won't. We promise."

* * *

><p>"We're going to a strip club. I can't believe it! Me, Blaine Anderson. Going to a strip club."<p>

"Oh shush Blaine. We're already _late_. I can't believe that we missed the _opening number_-"

"Half of my life I've been trying to keep tight the goody-two shoes image. And the other half, I _lived_ it. I mean, sure, I broke a few rules back in high school. But nobody didn't really care, right? Nobody would dare care because we oh I don't know, _donate a very generous amount_ to that school that resembled the gay version of Hogwarts?"

"—and _god_. Could you believe it David? We fucking missed the opening number! All because of the fact that we had to drag Blaine out of his _hotel room_!"

"But now, really? I may be sitting with a successful music producer and a lawyer but how _low_ could we possibly get? A fucking _strip_ club."

"Oh my god, I thought that we could _have fun_ but apparently we're bringing a gigantic pain in the ass with us! I swear the moment we step foot in that club—"

David massaged his temples. They were going to the club, as planned. And generally, things were fine, up until the point that Blaine's anxiety attack kicked in. All of a sudden he had the time to ramble on and on about them being _gents_ (seriously, who uses that word anymore?) and that women were to be respected and other crap like that again and again going back to full circle each and every time. Wes, being the short-tempered one, tried to calm Blaine the first few seconds. But really, he ended up fuming and contradicting each and every word Blaine said.

It was one hell of a limousine ride. David thought that he was seated with children.

"Okay, okay. Both of you_ shut the hell up_". David raised his hands in defeat. They all get off the vehicle, and patiently waited for a few seconds to watch it drive away, not wanting suspicions and rumors to conspire for what they were secretly doing for a few months now. "Wes, stop being an asshole. No wait, I've got a better idea. Stop _talking_. We may have missed the opening number. But I'm pretty sure the Cheerio's and Rachel's number aren't over yet." David felt Blaine's eyes on him. "The Cheerios are composed of two blonde girls and a Latina. They're hot. And Santana usually does a solo. Rachel may not be that all _sexified_, but she's elegant and decent enough to reproduce an amazing Barbra Streisand performance."

Wes and Blaine pouted, arms crossed against their chest. "Seriously guys, behave."

And with that, Wes and David proceeded to descend the stairs. Blaine took in the scene before him. Grungy, dirty building equipped with old, rusty, squeaky staircases. There was an arc, some sort of flashy attempt to create an entryway, a la Moulin Rouge. There was the name of the club: _Burlesque Lounge_, written in pink and yellow neon lights. Seriously, this was the place his best friends were gloating of? As far as he knows, he had seen _way_ better and well-ventilated clubs than this one. With a sigh, he entered the building.

Inside, it was..._satisfying_, to say the least. The narrow hallway was carpeted and decorated with plants, as it was with hotels. Blaine walked further, awfully worried yet undoubtedly curious at the same time. There was a poster at one side. He stared at it. There was a picture of a beautiful Jewish girl. Her hair was curled perfectly, her eyes were big and they twinkled mischievously, her lips were full and in a pout. All in all, Blaine had to admit, she was not bad looking at all. She gave off the aura of a _diva_, if her snobbish expression indicated anything.

_'The Best View in Sunset Strip'_, it read below. _'Featuring: Rachel, Quinn, Santana, Brittany, Lady'_

He kept on walking, examining all the portraits and the framed pictures on the walls. He noticed that there were other people hanging out in the hallway, casually chatting with each other or smoking alone. They didn't mind the curly haired man as he passed and turned to his left, where a neon sign of _'The Best View in Sunset Strip' _hung artfully. There, he descended down the stairs, only to find colorful stained glass dividers on his right, and what seemed to be a cashier's window directly upfront. Figuring that was the place people pay to before entering, he saw David chatting up with the man by the window. Sighing with relief, he caught up with him.

"It's about time", David chuckled as he took in Blaine's awed expression. His face seemed to scream _'What is this place? It's magical and I love it.'_

"First time?" The guy through the window asked, with noted amusement in his voice. Blaine peered in a little. He made out a guy around the same age and height as him, his face was powdered with foundation, and his eyes (which were bluish gray) were heavily lined with eyeliner and mascara, his lips were black and he was wearing a black top hat. Overall, he had the whole pantomime-esque feel on his appearance. "I'm Artie, by the way. And that's my real name, in case you were wondering. My stripper name is Wheels."

That made Blaine crack into a grin. His friend, David, shook his head at the attempt at humor. "You know, with the rate of how things are going, this may as well be his first _and_ last."

"Oh! Is he—?"

"He is."

Artie smirked. "Oh I doubt that David. I'm sure he's going to keep coming back after tonight." And then he smiled at Blaine. "Enjoy the evening, Mr. Anderson. And welcome to Burlesque Lounge."

* * *

><p>They found Wes seated at the front, a bit close to the stage. Apparently, Wes had subsequently <em>payed<em> the club a rational amount to reserve that spot for him. Blaine shook his head. It wasn't anything new for him. He knew that his friends from Dalton would gallantly spend their money the way they want it. And the only reason why the three of them took each their own family's respective jobs was because they were all bored. And they had interest in it, unlike the others.

David and Blaine sat down. And Wes had ordered dry martini's for the three of them. Extra dry, extra dirty, with olives. As well as a bottle of whiskey. Damn, they really were hell bent on getting drunk that night. "Who's next?" David asked Wes.

"The Cheerios", Wes answered with a perverted grin, accompanied by suggestive waggle of his eyebrows. The curly haired guy snorted into his drink.

Not so soon after, smoke filled the stage, and the lights dimmed. There were three silhouettes accented by a red spotlight. Blaine figured out that they must be the blondes and the Latina David was talking about a while ago. He crossed his legs and propped his head against his hand, eyes avertedly darting across the room, taking in his new environment. It was only until the lights changed, and the music started playing, that he focused his attention on the performance. There were three _extremely_ attractive girls. And Blaine was sure that if he wasn't gay, he would totally gone out with one of them...Maybe the short blonde one, she looked kind of sweet. They were wearing diamond studded leather police caps. They had the slutty version of a police outfit (leather bra and leather skimpy sexy shorts), matched with leather gloves that reached up to their elbows, and of course, those _boots_.

"_Ooh, oh yeah yeah_", the Latina, Santana, sang the part powerfully. Blaine felt the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand up. "_Oooh yeah yeah I need a tough lover, yeah yeah yeah."_

_I need a, a tough lover, woo_

_I need a, a tough lover, yeah yeah yeah_

_A tough lover, ooh yeah_

_When he kisses me, I get that thrill_

_When he does that wiggle I won't keep still_

She proceeded to sway her hips in a sultry fashion as she motions a _'come-hither'_ gesture to the audience. Unable to conceal his astute attraction to the performer, Wes kept on drinking down shots faster than expected. David chuckled, telling his friend to slow it down. All the while Blaine snorted into his drink, Wes was _horny_, for god's sake. But the amusing part was, he had _no other way_ to deal about it.

"_I wanna a tough lover"_, Santana continued to sing, the emotion rippling in her song. Blaine may not be aroused by her, but he was affected by her—in some way. It was as if the strength she poured into those words, the raw power, and the _intensity_—it was rolling into him as some sort of adrenaline. If it was the cause of the alcohol or the singer or both, the successful CEO didn't care. He was actually having _fun_. Damn, she was a real good singer.

The two blondes, the shorter one called Quinn, and the taller one, Brittany, began to sway and dance whilst in background. "_Yeah, yeah"_, they sing as they wink coquettishly.

While they continued their performance, Blaine found himself bopping his head along with the music. He knew he wasn't fond of such music genres. The only music he grew up with is Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, and other long-dead composers. It was only then in high school that he had discovered of glorious bands and musicians such as The Beatles, AC/DC, Queen, Red Hot Chili Peppers, The Who, Air Supply, Nirvana, and so on and so forth. He liked some of the contemporary music as well, since Wes was a _music_ producer after all. Bands and people such as Coldplay, Florence and the Machines, Pink, _Katy _freakin' _Perry_, that Adele...But the old rock Santana was singing, he _loved_ it.

_He'll make me laugh, he'll make me cry_

_He'll be so tough he'll make Venus come alive_

_He'll do anything that he wants to do_

_Step on Jesse James's blue suede shoes, yeah_

The audience was clapping their hands along with the beat of the music, with Blaine and David joining them. On the other hand, Wes kept on clinging unto David, sputtering drunken slurs like what he would give to get Santana into _his_ bed, and then comparing her with his ex-girlfriend of two months, Samantha. "Oh my god, Wes, get off of me. People might think that _we're_ getting it on in here and you might have no chance with Santana anymore!" David shouted, downright pushing Wes off of his lap.

"_A tough lover yeah yeah"_ Santana hit the last note so perfectly while the other girls (and guys) kept on dancing in the background. Quinn and Brittany shook their hips and raised their arms as they sang the last part with their partner. _"Yeah, yeah._"

They finished. The Cheerios hugged one another. The audience was more than happy of such high entertainment. With a huge respect and open admiration for them, they all gave them wild applauses accompanied by a standing ovation.

_Okay_, Blaine admitted, _maybe this strip club isn't so bad at all._

* * *

><p>"Oh my god, she's...She's...good, I don't know what's better than good. David, help me out here. What's better than good?" Blaine asked, words rushing out. He was still feeling buzzed and high from the rush. "No, no. Not better or best. What's better than best then? She's...awesome. Awesome is good. She's...<em>awesome<em>. Like, really _awesome_." Okay, so he was tipsy now. The good news was, Wes wasn't doing any better either.

"HA! I told you Andeeerson!" Wes downed another shot. "I told you to—to stick your ass out of yer head, oh wait", Blaine howled with laughter, "—stick your head out yer ass coz this is like...real...real...David, help me out here. I can't finish the goddamned...thing."

"Real awesome", the Eurasian offered with a grin. Wes poured another round. He quickly drank it and set it down loudly. "Oh. This is..._real awesome_...You're too Blaine! Coz you helped me and David did not. David? You suck." Blaine laid his head on the table, shaking in silent laughter. The only probable sane person left was David. He wasn't keen on drinking too much, despite that his alcohol-tolerance was high. The reason why he didn't drink that night was because he _knew_ that he was going to be babysitting for the rest of the evening.

Slyly, David got his phone and recorded how drunk and tipsy the other two were. "Wave to the camera, boys!"

"Hi Mom!" Blaine grinned dorkily. "Oh wait. Why are there more Cheerios on stage? Who's going to perform next? I hope it's a guy this time. Girls are kinda nice, but I like guys better."

David shrugged. "It's supposed to be Rachel, the one I told you about-oh wait", the lights finally dimmed, a lone spotlight focusing on a slender form draped across the shining, glittering, jewel-embedded French recliner. "Hey, that's not her. She's short. Hobbit-type. Kinda like you."

"_Where have I been all my life?" _a soft, musical voice filled the room. Then, as the band began to play the music, the whole stage lit up with yellow, orange, white lights, all focused on the person lying down there. And as if on cue, the band began to play: saxophones belting out jazzy tunes accompanied by the drums. "_The Dress is Chanel. The shoes YSL. The Bag is Dior_", whoever it was in there suddenly sat up, and Blaine could see that it was-well, he couldn't make out if it was a girl or a guy. But whoever that was, he/she was definitely _beautiful_.

"_Agent Provocateur_", it was a _guy_, Blaine realized, completely sober, as he took in the way the guy bared his neck in a seductive manner. And oh god, he looked like an _angel_. What with his amazing chestnut brown, coiffed hair. And then he focused his attention on his face, squinting because the guy was on the other side of the stage, completely far from where they were. _Next time_, he promised himself, _I'm going to get a good seat. The only thing visible here are the props at the stage._

The beautiful performer then crossed his legs and faced the opposite direction. "_My address today", _he turned to glance back, "_LA by the way", _he winked at the bartender with a Mohawk. He then pushed himself upwards, and supporting his whole weight by his arms, bended forward, and swayed his hips mischievously, knowing that he was wearing a peacock skirt, which exposed his ass—what a fine view it was—and that there was a mirror behind to reflect it. It certainly did strange wonders to Blaine's nether regions. Now, he finally knew what Wes felt as he watched the guy continue his little dance. "_Above the Sunset Strip, the hills all the way."_

_"My rings are by Webster"_, he continued. "_It makes their heads twirl_." The guy literally twirled his head, his perfectly styled hair messing up in seconds. And damn, if it was possible, it only made him sexier. He skipped a little bit before daintily sitting down, legs crossed. "_They say 'Darling", _he leaned forward, "_what did you do with those pearls?'_" He ran his finger against the necklace that was clasped around his neck.

"_What?"_ He faked a shocked expression. And then he jumped upwards, and it was finally the moment Blaine took a real _good_ look at him. The guy was tall, a few centimeters taller than him (why was he sensitive about _height difference_ again? It wasn't like they were going to be together or anything...), he had gorgeous _blue_ eyes, and then his eyes raked down his body...Unconsciously, he let out a groan. _Damn_. The guy was wearing a fucking _corset_. It was red, laced with some black ruffles and ribbons, and it clashed _deliciously_ with his porcelain skin. And the peacock styled skirt was black, sinfully ruffled and all. The whole outfit was topped with a pair of knee high laced boots, and _fishnet_ stockings. And despite being a guy, how did he work all those out and _still_ look so fuckable?

He was pulled out from his (undapper) thoughts when he heard David crying with laughter next to him. Apparently, he was _still_ recording this embarrassing night's events, mainly focusing on Wes.

"Oh my _god_. I don't care if he has a dick. He's soooo fucking _sexy_", Wes thrust his hips shallowly into thin air. "I'd fucking tap that. Did you see his ass?"

Before he could stop it, Blaine felt a growl build from the back of his throat. It was stupid, getting angry at his drunken friend. But it was something that happened for the first time in his life. The one where he saw some_one_ and he just wants that person so much. And from the way his dick was quickly hardening and suffocating due to his fucking tight pants, he realized that he wanted that guy _so bad_.

"Blaine?" David asked, concerned for a moment.

Ignoring him, Blaine turned his attention back to the performance. No matter, he was going to do something about it. Yes, yes, he was going to come here _every_ night if it meant that his angel was performing. And who knows? Maybe a few more visits and some persuasion (how could anybody _not_ love him? He was Blaine _fucking_ Anderson, for god's sake), he was sure that _next _time his little porcelain would be performing a private show Just. For._ Him_.

The guy stood up and strutted towards to where a curtain rope was hanging. He turned to the audience, his blue eyes (highlighted by some eye shadow, mascara, and eyeliner, making them appear _bigger_) widened, his lips in a pout—he looked so godfucking _innocent_ that Blaine's wild imagination conjured of some images wherein the guy was lying down beneath him, on top of him, on his knees, around him—

"_I am a good girl_", he whispered in a high-pitched voice, crooning at the end. He swayed his hips once, _lowly_ and how did he turn that flexible again? And then, he pulled the rope down, revealing some majestic, elegant staircase.

And while the ad lib was playing, Blaine just had to find out who he was. To his great delight and relief, there was a rather adorable Asian girl serving Wes another bottle of whatever kind of alcohol it was. He shrugged at his friend, at some point, he was going to die of alcohol poisoning, he was sure of it. Politely, he tapped the girl's shoulder, twice. "Excuse me, Miss?"

"Uuh, yes? Drinks?" The Asian girl smiled at him, almost making her eyes disappear.

"Could you tell me who's that performing right now?" Blaine pointed at the guy. And the exact moment he glanced at him, the guy strutted a few steps, looking at his back each time and winking like the nymph that he was. He placed his hands on his hips and swayed them provocatively, as if giving them the taste of what his hips _could_ do. And he must say, those were some talented hips. The second the guy sat on a step, leaned against the railing, and then pushed his legs up in the air, making the skirt fall backwards, revealing more of the _milky white skin thatwasbeggingtobemarkedbyhim_, he forgot to breathe.

Wes shouted exuberantly at that moment. "Oh my god! You're _Asian!_" He laughed. "I'm Asian too. See? We have the same almost-not-there eyes. Blaine's Asian too. But he's a hobbit. And David's not Asian. Because David sucks. Hi David! I love you, man."

The waitress grinned, used to such embarrassing happenings. "That's _Lady_ over there", she nodded. Blaine vaguely remembered of someone called _Lady_ included in this night's programme from the outside advertisement. The one with the picture of the Jewish girl.

"But _he_ isn't exactly...a Lady, right?"

She laughed. "No, he's not. We just call him that on the posters we post outside. That's his alias. His real name is Kurt."

Why did Blaine feel as if the sun was rising and everything was rainbows and butterflies again? "So, why the alias?"

"Excuse me for a second", the waitress muttered as she turned to her left and then served them their drinks. She got their empty glasses and absentmindedly set them to her tray as she leaned back to answer Blaine's question. "Oh, that. See, well...Burlesque has also been famous for being..._versatile_ when it comes to gender. As far as I know, we're the only club who works around with the third-gender, and we know how to make use of it too." She gestured at _Kurt_ as she placed new orders of beverages on another table. "We may be in New York City, but apparently, there are _still_ some people who aren't particularly fond of such...uniqueness. So, first and foremost, we protect our employees by covering their identities, if needed. We have enough security to ward those homophobic bastards, though", she pointed at the guys who were standing as bartenders and even some of the waiters that night.

"So...he's gay?"

"As the fourth of July", she smiled sweetly at him and then left to go back to the bar.

By the time that Blaine fixated his attention back to his lovely little performer, whose name was _Kurt_ (really, he _had_ to remember that name), he was already at the top of the stairs, presenting the four back-up dancers, wearing the same costume as he was, although the color they were wearing was _white_ and _pink_. Such innocent colors, in contrast to the red and black Kurt was wearing. And on top of the stairs, in the middle of the four female entertainers, there was a _godfucking_ pole.

A pole.

Blaine's head was pretty much broken by then.

_BH I adore, Rodeo l'amour  
>Breakfast Polo Lounge then poolside for sure<em>

After dancing in a rather _suggestive_ manner (touching his collarbones, dragging his hands down his chest, bending forward-rather _obvious, _than _suggestive_) Kurt _finally_ approached the pole, curled his leg around it, and then began sliding downwards. "_The Chateau for cocktails_", he stood up and went to the other side of the pole, "_The Courtyard at nine_", he tipped his head backward, exposing his long neck. _"Dan Tana's for dinner"_, he gracefully leaned his back against the pole, raising his arm as he gripped the metal, _"The hell is divine." _He grinded his ass backwards. He then turned around, his lovely behind facing the audience, and playfully shook it at them.

Blaine used all his reasonable logic and willpower and dapper principles in life to stop himself from actually getting up from where he was seated to spank that ass.

But _deargod_, Kurt was testing him.

_You know I have found the words goin' round  
>They all say my feet never do touch the ground<br>_

As he sang the last part, he grabbed the pole, lifted himself from the ground just enough to give a little kicking motion in the air. The audience laughed at the rather adorable antic.

"_What_?" He repeated the same feigned surprised expression, hand covering his slightly gaping mouth.

"_I am a good girl_", he finished the song, both of his legs around the pole before rubbing himself against it once in a subtle yet arousing way. He strutted his way downward the staircase, as the song was finally nearing to an end, and instead of singing, all the sounds that were coming out from his mouth were high-pitched mewls, moans, and gasps.

He ended up where he first began the song, at the jewel studded seat. In a half-sitting, half-lying position, he crossed his legs. And as if on cue, an tall Asian guy, wearing a black wifebeater and some pants, one of the bartenders _maybe_, came on stage holding a tray with a small shot glass on it. Kurt quickly drank the shot, grabbed the guy's hat, placed it on his head, and then leaned back.

"_I am a good girl_", his voice deepened an octave, making Blaine shiver. With the final note ending, the curtains abruptly closed down, and the lights on the stage turned off, indicating that _that_ number was over.

The audience particularly _loved_ it. They were cheering and wildly clapping and some were giving Kurt a standing ovation. Blaine wanted to give Kurt a standing ovation too but he couldn't. Why? Because his erection was so painful that he was sure he lost all other basic abilities like thinking, much less the ability to actually _walk_. His mind raced over the countless dirty adult films, porn, racy shows he watched during his adolescent years. And not once had he experienced something so evenly remotely arousing as this performance was. And the frustrating part of it? He was sporting a hard-on when Kurt's clothes were still _intact_.

"Man! That was some performance! What do you think—Hey Blaine, where are you going?" David turned just in time to see his friend hastily stand up, almost knocking Wes' drink.

"Comfort Room, excuse me", he mumbled as he made sure that the coat he was wearing covered his prominent problem.

* * *

><p>Once inside, it was thankfully empty. And relatively clean too. Blaine wasted no time slipping in the nearest cubicle and yanking his pants and boxers down. As his fingers wrapped around his painfully throbbing dick, he almost sobbed in relief. He didn't bother to pleasure himself that time, as he usually does so. Just straight on tension-remover. He began to stroke it, gradually increase his speed, twisting his wrist in just <em>that<em> direction and-"Oh fuck Kurt", he moaned loudly. "Shit shit shit."

He was tugging at his dick quickly now, feeling the recoiling heat growing in his lower abdomen. Just imagining Kurt with his long neck bared _for him_, Kurt with his slender body _naked_, Kurt with his _gorgeous mile-long legs_ wrapped around his waist, Kurt with his _addicting voice_ screaming _his_ name in ecstasy—oh fucking god, he was so fucking close—he began to thrust his hips into his hand.

"Kurt, Kurt, Kurt", he moaned. Oh _shit_, just—yes, just a _bit _more—

And as he ran his thumb on the head, scraping his nail slightly, he _finally finally _finally spilled into his hand. It was messy. There was a lot of cum in his hand, dripping down his boxers. Blaine was sure he had never jerked off so intensely, never came that _hard_ in his entire life. And to who does it owe it too? Not to his flings, or his boyfriends, or even his one-night stands-but to a _guy_ he just met, well _saw_, a few minutes ago. Guilt carefully ebbed its way to his mind, once the intense feeling of pleasure wore off. He couldn't believe he just jerked off about a guy—a performer in a _strip_ club, when he had his own relationship issues to take care of.

Feeling disgusted with himself, he grabbed some tissues from its holder, hurriedly cleaned up his hand and the leftovers, and tucked his clothes back into order. He dumped the tissues in the trash can. After making sure that everything was alright, he suddenly remembered that he _had_ to explain to David about his...weirdness a while ago. '_Oh hi David. I just got back from the bathroom to jerk off thinking about the guy, Kurt, who just performed'_ was not the best reason to give, Blaine figured.

Opening the cubicle door, he went to the sink to wash his hands and wallow for his little slip-up when he noticed another presence in the room. After turning the tap off, he blindly searched for a dryer or some tissues or _anything_ that could dry his hands.

"Here", a familiar quiet, yet high-pitched voice startled him. When he glanced back, he found himself staring directly at the most breath-taking pair of eyes he had ever seen in his whole life. It was a strange mixture of blue, green, and gray and—_fuck_.

Oh, look who it was.

It was none other than the person he was fantasizing about minutes ago—_Kurt_.

_Great_.

Was everybody really fucking with him? This was too surreal. This was too _mortifying_. Blaine felt blood rush to his cheeks as he took the packet of tissues from the beautiful guy. He mumbled a soft _'thanks'_ in return. And god, Blaine wished that the floor would eat him up alive at that moment. Really. Out of all the people in this world, what were the chances that you were going to meet the same person you thought while you got off?

"I hope you're not uncomfortable or anything", Kurt spoke in an apologetic voice. "The Ladies' Room was crowded, as usual. And backstage is as hectic. Rachel is in there right now and I don't really want to deal with her. She's going to stab me because I _stole_ her solo from her tonight, the little bitch", he snorted at the last part. Blaine watched him move from the mirror. He could see narrow, elegant hands fiddle about with a brush, dipping into the pink blush-on container, and swiftly applying it to his cheek in quick light strokes. That was when it hit Blaine. Kurt was apologizing to him because _he_ thought that he walked in on Blaine's private moment when he was..._ohdeargod_.

"I—uuh—did you—uuhh", Blaine stammered, feeling his face hot. "You know...I'm..." what was he going to say? Was he going to apologize? _'Hey I'm sorry for jerking off while moaning your name. I'm Blaine, nice to meet you.' _That would go _really_ well. Right.

Kurt paused from his actions and gazed at Blaine. He tilted his head in confusion, seemingly befuddled by Blaine's idiotic actions. Then suddenly, everything clicked into place.

"Oh", the counter tenor (based from his voice, Blaine assumed) slightly blushed. "It's...fine. Not that I mean it's actually _okay_ for me. But I mean it's not the first time I..." he trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid. They both stood there, awkward silence in the air. Then Kurt began to stuff his cosmetics into a small leather man-purse. "First time?" He asked, not bothering to look at Blaine.

When he couldn't answer, Kurt just shook his head and checked his reflection.

"Figures", Blaine heard Kurt mutter as he left the room.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I did it! Ugh. Totally fell in love with this movie. I'm going to base it from "Burlesque", just some vague parts I guess. But I'll be twisting the plot to my own…That is, if you guys want me to continue. Tell me, and I'll change this to a multi-chaptered fic. If not, I'll leave this as a one-shot.**

**Oh, and PS: I know it's not a strip club. More like, a cabaret of some sort. And I know Blaine, Wes, and David keep on saying that it's a strip club. But no worries! They shall be corrected soon enough. Now, REVIEWS! **


	2. Cat Fight

**A/N: Here you go. A short chapter. Just a filler, really. More introductions. Stuff happens after this. Enjoy and review. :)**

* * *

><p>He felt like <em>shit<em>. Honestly.

Blaine sighed and hastily dropped his pen in front of him, abandoning the shitty paperwork for one second. He felt like he couldn't breathe, even though his tie had been loosened already. Tired hazel eyes glanced around the room—plush leather seats, a glass coffee table, a sleek black bookcase—it felt as if the place was good for viewing, something out of a magazine. He glanced down at his desk, '_important_' papers scattered around, folders, memos—_goddamit_, he couldn't _breathe._ He was _suffocating_.

"Shit. I need a goddamned fucking drink."

The mini-fridge was just a few steps beside him. Before he could make any move though, his phone rang.

"Mr. Anderson", his secretary's shrill voice drawled in, "there's a phone call for you on Line 3. It's Mr. Harley."

Line 3? It must probably be business work. "Alright", he rubbed his temple, "put him through."

After a few seconds, a short _beep_, and then a sound as if the line connected to another one. Blaine impatiently drummed his fingers on the table, wanting this conversation to already end.

_'Hello?'_

His eyebrows shot up. "David?" He understood Wes calling him on the business line for personal reasons. After all, his friend was just an _ass_ like that. But David? Out of the three of them, it was very safe to say that David was the one who kept balance all the time. "What's wrong?" Maybe he read things too quickly? Maybe David had a case concerning one of their employees or something?

_'Hi, Blaine. Yeah, about that. Sorry if I called here. I would've called you on your personal one if only I had my cellphone'_, he could clearly hear David's annoyed huff on the other line.

Brows furrowed, he licked his lips before speaking. "What? What happened to your phone? Were you mugged? Are you okay?"

_'It's not that complicated Blainey, relax'_, David chuckled, _'I wasn't mugged. More like my phone was kidnapped.'_

He let out a snort. "Wes?" That name alone would've solved a billion and one problems involving lots of world issues. "And let me guess, he stole your phone because you probably blackmailed him with the video of what happened last Friday. Very mature, David. You were probably begging for this to happen." Blaine snorted as he picked up the file he set aside a few minutes ago. "And this is Wes we're talking about."

_'I—It's—Well, it's _hardly_ my fault! He was just being shitty with hangover throughout the whole_ week_, Blaine. And he's acting like I'm his babysitter or something!' _The Eurasian chuckled dryly as he closed his eyes and rubbed them with his hand. _'Anyways, Wes told me that he'll give me back my phone under one condition. See? He even faxed me the 'contract', the little bitch. And here's what it says: 'I, Wesley Steinway, would give back David Harley's Blackberry under the condition that', and I quote word per word, 'he convinces Blaine Anderson to attend Burlesque Lounge every Friday to perv on their gay performer. Yes, Blaine Anderson, _we_ know.'_ _So there.'_

As soon as Blaine heard the name _'Burlesque Lounge'_ everything else was tuned out. Instead he indulged himself in brief flashbacks of what it was like for him. The pink and yellow neon lights, the carpeted hallway, the pantomime-esque front man, the Cheerios, and the mysterious blue-eyed performer that left him intoxicated and high-strung and _needy_. He shook his head, realizing that such idle chats won't get him nowhere near to finishing his work. "I'm sorry David, I really want to help you get back your phone, but it's just that...You know about the Warbler records collaboration, and another hospital opening in SoHo, plus I need to get scaffolding permits ready for the new hotel we're planning to put up in—"

_'It's just a yes or no answer, Blaine.'_

"No", Blaine sighed, "I'm really sorry David. I'm just swamped with shit this week."

_'Yeah, I understand. I'll pass the message to Wes.' _David sighed. _'I better go now. I apologize for disturbing you while you're slowly overworking yourself to death, Blaine. I better call in your sexy—secretary to check on you from time to time. Make sure you don't kill yourself.'_

He felt the edges of his lips curl into a smile. "I'd appreciate that mate. Well then, you two have some fun now."

* * *

><p>Blaine Anderson found himself in front of the entryway, feeling deja vu wash over him as he stared at the sign. With a sigh, he jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and proceeded to jog down the stairs, finding himself a bit restless. Maybe it has something to do with the excitement coiling in his stomach about seeing a certain singer? Blaine shook his head once again and confidently strode to the window.<p>

"Good evening sir", _Artie_ (as he remembered) didn't seem to recognize him, "that'll be twenty dollars, please." The guy smiled at him as he fumbled around for a bit. _Finally_, Blaine managed to produce a crisp new thousand dollar bill. "Uh, don't you have any change for this, my good sir?" Artie chuckled good-naturedly. Because really, who would be walking around wearing seemingly _normal_ clothes whilst carrying huge wads of cash? That seemed _highly_ suspicious.

The curly haired businessman blushed a bit, checking his pockets for any stray changes. Suddenly remembering that he paid the cab on his way here, he grabbed a thick bundle of cash from his back pocket. With a grin, he produced a hundred dollar bill. "Sorry about that." Blaine noted to carry a smaller amount next time..._If_ there was a next time.

Blaine figured that the rest of the staff of this place was highly trained that they shouldn't ask questions or pokes their noses in the business of their rather..._shady_ customers. Seeing as how Artie's eyes flickered with curiosity for the briefest moment before fixing it back to its amused dull bluish gray ones. With a shrug, he gave him his change and grinned, gesturing to the entryway beside him. "Welcome to the Burlesque Lounge."

Flashing the guy a grateful smile, Blaine entered the small crowded club. And instantly, the bright neon lights, the intoxicating scents, and the melody of drawled murmurs and soft jazz music filled his ears—his body seemingly sparked with fire at the _sensations_.

Awkwardly scanning the crowd for familiar places, he chose to sit by the bar this time. It may be directly placed right _beside_ the stage, but the front and the opposite part of it were both crowded with its usual occupants already. Blaine figured it was the _safest_ place to sit. With a sigh, he sat in one of the stools and immediately recognized the bartender. It was the guy with the Mohawk—the one his lovely _Kurt_ winked at.

"What'll it be?" He asked. His voice low and gruff.

"Some Tequila, please", he rubbed his temple tiredly as he threw some folded bills on the counter. "And a Martini. Extra dry, extra dirty, and put an olive, will you?"

* * *

><p>Backstage was hectic. It was a constant flurry of motions. Some girls were seated in front of their mirrors, preparing themselves for the next number. Others were retouching their smudging make-up. Others were changing into their costume, right then and <em>there<em>. It didn't matter to them that other people might see them in their underwear, that they might see them naked, exposed, and _vulnerable_. They were all used to it. Males were prohibited from entering backstage anyway, unless they were called for something. Only two known men were exempted from the rule: one, the costume designer, and the other, a performer. It was maybe because both of them were only men biologically. But in other aspects, they weren't.

"Where is she? Where is she?" a strawberry blonde haired girl muttered, securing the fake jewelry unto her neck.

"We're up in a few minutes and she's _not here yet!_"

Another one scoffed, a Latina with a rather promiscuous figure. "Figures", she filed her nails absentmindedly, "the little bitch _always_ does thinks that the show's going to wait for her skinny little ass."

"Santana!" a brunette intervened. "Back-lashing her won't help you know. John? John—dammit, where did he—? Oh John, help me with my costume. The corset won't let me breathe right."

"Maybe it's time for you to cut down those _'all-you-can-eat'_ events and start wolfing down rabbit food", Santana smirked, making the tall blonde next to her laugh.

"Oh fuck off."

"Will do", Santana purred, "once Brittany and I get a room." The rest of the girls groaned in annoyance.

"Girls, girls, let's watch our lovely little mouths, okay?" a bald man, wearing eyeglasses, around his forties, wearing a slim fitting black shirt and some casual jeans pointedly stared at Santana, who merely shrugged. He moved behind the brunette and pulled the strings harshly, making the girl gasp. "Just do what I tell you each and every time Monica. _Hold your breath._"

The strawberry blonde haired performer peeked in between the curtains. "John!" She hissed. "The intermission number's nearing to a finish and Miss I'm-always-late isn't here yet!"

John sighed and muttered something under his breath. "Oh dear god", he glanced around, "Where's Quinn?" A beautiful petite blonde girl stepped forward. She was already in costume: a sexy two-piece black lingerie and a rather elaborate fake necklace on her neck. Her hair was curled. She had smoky eyes, pinkish cheeks, and red lips.

She was ready.

"Quinn, honey. Forget being back-up for tonight. You go in and take Rachel's place. Back-ups will still be the same. Paula, you take Quinn's place in the second vocals. Now go, go." He finished lacing up the corset and gave her ass a little slap, making her squeal delightedly.

* * *

><p>The lights on the stage dimmed. And the audience was suddenly clapping and riled up. Blaine set down his drink, curious and at the same time, hopeful about the next performance. At the same time, he spotted Wes and David sitting down the same place where they sat last week. Blaine messed up his gel-free hair all the more and pushed up his eyeglasses. He downed his shot fast, burning his throat. The bartender gave him a funny look.<p>

A jazzy yet familiar tune filled Blaine's ears, although he couldn't really place where he heard it first. And then there were two spotlights focusing on a slender figure, gracefully sliding down the beaded curtains. She landed down with a perfect half split, showing off her flexibility.

"_A kiss on the hand may be quite continental_", the blonde stood up, clad in a sexy two piece lingerie, some fishnet stockings and high heels, and lots of jewelries—sparkly earrings, and a beautiful fake necklace. She did a high kick and twirled around. "_But diamonds are a girl's best friend_", she winked at the audience as she bended down low, touching her leg with her hand climbing upwards while the other was placed behind her back. Other dancers, who were languidly sitting on the sidelines, joined her and swayed their hips seductively.

_A kiss may be grand, but it won't pay the rental_

_On your humble flat, or help you feed your pussycat_

As she sang the last line, she turned her back, wiggled her ass twice, and looked back. Throwing another fake-innocent glance at the crowd, and the brunette next to her slapped her ass, making her pop up her foot daintily. It was really adorable, and Blaine couldn't help but grin. He noticed that the bartender momentarily stopped concocting mixes as he watched the petite girl dance across the stage with a small smile on his face. "I'm actually surprised at how talented these performers are!" Blaine shouted over the music. The bartender stared at him with a bewildered expression.

"I thought this was one of those regular strip clubs", he continued, not really sure why he initiated a conversation, "scantily clad women and pole dancing and all that."

Suddenly the bartender grabbed him by the collar roughly, dragging him half-bent over the counter, some of his drink wasted on his clothes now. Blaine's heart jumped to his mouth, fearful for what might happen next. He glanced at the guy's huge biceps. "This ain't a _strip_ club, kid", he said to him with a warning look in his eye.

The bartender gazed past by his shoulder, seemingly, another person caught unto what he was doing. Because the next second, he was released. "If you want a whorehouse, you go to the Cat Scratch Club down the street", he snorted before he left him, off to serve drinks and do his job that night.

With shaking hands, Blaine gripped his glass tightly. There were a lot of things going on in his mind after what happened. But the only thought that he could clearly make out of his messed up head was that the bartender actually used a reference from _Rent_ against him. He frowned.

"_Tiffany's_", the blonde snatched the necklace from the tall blonde girl, the one holding her by the arm as she bended backwards lowly. She grinned at her spectators as she strutted and then one of the girl's supported her as she did a little leg pivot in the air. Afterwards, she knelt down the floor and crawled her way to a familiar Latina, _Santana_ (was it?), and ripped off the necklace from her. "_Cartier_." Then the five girls were in a V-shaped formation, gracefully walking and swaying their hips to the beat as the blonde bit her lip naughtily and whirled the necklace that she got with one hand.

"_Black_", she removed her own necklace, "_Star"_, the strawberry blonde girl removed the jeweled bow on her neck.

"_Ross_ _Cole_", she threw her jewels in the air. _"Talk to me, Harry Zilder, tell me all about it!_" She growled a bit as she messed up her hair. And then all the girls turned their backs, walking towards the beaded curtain, before they all looked over and raised their hands over the beaded curtain, sliding down, grinding their hips as they lift their selves up.

* * *

><p>"Your star has arrived!" A high-pitched voice excitedly bounced towards the spot where he was silently smoking, watching his girls perform flawlessly. The girl was short, her height lacking in inches compared to most of the average girls working in the club. She had big expressive eyes, a Jewish nose, and plump lips. It was a well-recognized face. After all, she was the <em>star<em> of Burlesque Lounge, the main attraction.

John gave her a once-over. Seeing that she was already in costume, he continued his smoking. "You're late. You're late", he said in a singsong voice, "for a very important date." The costume designer sighed. This wasn't going to be pretty. "Quinn went on for you." He could already see the annoyance creep into her features as she peeked from the curtains and there _she_ was. Looking so glamorous, and wonderful, and _stealing_ her spotlight—wasn't it enough that she was already turning heads because of her beauty? Her lips curled into a bitter frown.

"Why is that _bitch_ in there performing _my_ number?" She turned her wrath towards him.

He shrugged. "You weren't here. And she was there."

"Ugh", she groaned, "I _told_ you. Jesse St. James wanted me to sit next to him over the earlier numbers. It's Jesse St. James. You know how it is between me and him." She grabbed her tiara and placed it on her head. She made sure that her necklace was on, and then she turned to Dave, one of the technicians. "Give me my spot." And then she put on her faux fur coat.

The guy nodded and went on to fix the spotlight.

"Rachel", John started as he watched the girl fix her hair before walking towards the curtain. "Rachel, _Rachel_. What are you doing? Get back here—_Rachel_."

* * *

><p>The curtains revealed the fierce Jewish girl. And at the sight of her, the audience avidly clapped. Blaine easily identified her as the girl on the poster that was placed outside. She was <em>Rachel<em>, the one David was bragging about her vocal prowess. The Eurasian put down his drink and ardently placed his attention on her. Seeing that there _definitely_ was a lack of Kurt tonight, he reckoned that at the very least, he was _entertained_.

"_I've heard of affairs that are strictly platonic_", Rachel carelessly threw her fur coat towards the blonde girl, who seemed a bit irritated at the act. "_But diamonds are a girl's best friend_", she imitated a kitten adorably scratching. But then the blonde girl decided to do the same, and it ended up looking as if they imitated a cat fight, which, to Blaine's amusement, he considered was something that could plausibly happen. It was evident how competitive this Rachel was.

_And I think affairs that you must keep liaisonic_

_Are better bets if little pets get big baggettes_

Rachel sweetly touched the tip of the girl's nose. And then she bumped her hip against Rachel's a bit too hard, seeing that the shorter stumbled to her side. She kept her footing though, saving an awkward fall for herself.

"_Time rolls on"_

_"And youth is gone"_, the blonde stepped in front of her. The shorter, with a defiant pout, brushed her away and pushed her to her back to outshine her. Everybody knew what was happening on stage. There was a _bit_ of evident conflict, but none of them knew if it was scripted or not. Either way, it just added more dazzle to the entire thing.

But Blaine overhead the scary bartender with the Asian one. Blaine remembered that the tall Asian one had been part of Kurt's performance. He was the one who served him the shot at the end of his number. "What the hell is Rachel up there man?" Mohawk guy stopped Asian guy by the arm.

Asian guy shrugged. "I don't know dude. I think Rachel came in late, and seeing that Quinn took her place...Well, you know how she gets."

"This would go very well backstage" Mohawk guy sighed. "Now get your ass out of here and serve this shit. Expect that we're to be needed after this number. Where's Sam? He should take over here."

That was the blonde's name! _Quinn_. She was part of the Cheerios. But what was it about Rachel being late? And about her Quinn taking her place? And what exactly would happen backstage? More than usual, Blaine's curiosity was piqued by these questions. For the first time in his life, he was _finally_ interested about something. Although that particular something of his was in a rather impolite manner. But he was just so interested in this place, even though it was only his second time visiting...

"_But diamonds"_, Rachel belted out in a high voice, "_are a_—"

"_Girl's best_", Quinn interrupted, earning a not-so-subtle glare from the other.

"_Friend"_, they belted out together, their hands gesturing to each other, fake smiles plastered on their faces. The music ended and the audience _loved_ it. Some were whistling, and some were giving them standing ovations. Blaine felt himself grin widely at their mind-blowing performance, ignoring some of the awkwardness aside. He watched Quinn and Rachel hold each other by the waist and bow in synch. And then Rachel pushed Quinn to the back of the curtains, earning an indignant surprised gasp from her. She raced out to the front, savoring the claps and the praises and she clearly _loved_ being the center of the attention.

Blaine felt his phone was vibrating in his pocket. Frowning, he slipped out of the cabaret quietly. Disappointment filled his veins. Well, at least he got to unwind. And Wes and David didn't see him.

That was something, right?

* * *

><p>"You—you <em>blonde<em> jealous bitch! How dare you steal my show?" Rachel yelled as she shoved Quinn angrily. The blonde glared at her before she was helped to her feet by none other than Santana. Other performers and dancers warily glanced back and forth. This wasn't at all new to them. But lately, their little squabbles turned to full arguments. And lately, they've been hoping that it wouldn't turn into those nasty bitch fights with the scratching and the profanity yelling. They knew what Santana was like when she was angry.

There was another intermission on stage, and afterwards, it was Rachel's final solo for the night.

Unfortunately, that meant that they had enough time for _this_.

"Hold up Shorty", Santana coolly intervened. Preparing herself for the imagined scenarios that she knew that was inevitably going to happen. "You better _lay off_ Quinn. Don't you dare push her around like that. And how dare you call her a jealous bitch? Well, she is a blonde bitch", Santana shrugged, "but she's _our_ bitch, not yours. Fuck off, Rachel."

Rachel scoffed. "Of course you're going around protecting her, she's your Queen Bee and you're her little sluts of—"

Santana began to scream in her native language as she lunge forward the startled girl. "_Slut_? Fuck you, you deranged little bitch. Keep on dreaming Berry. At least some of us are actually _getting some_. When are you going to get laid? By the time you're fifty and you're all dried up? Not that anyone would _still_ be interested in you."

The Jewish girl rolled her eyes and flipped her hair. "Unlike any of you _whores_, I actually have a big dream for myself. And unlike you, I actually have Jesse St. James. He's going to help me land a role in Broadway someday. I'm going to be famous, and you're all still going to be stuck here."

"Why you little piece of—" Santana tried to attack the shorter again. Good thing Brittany, the tall blonde, was there to intervene and calm Santana down.

"If you're so lucky, then why the hell are you still here?" Quinn asked coldly. "Shouldn't you be with St. James right now, auditioning or rehearsing scripts? If you have such dreams, then why are you still here, _stuck_ with the rest of us?"

Rachel faltered for a moment there. And then she crossed her arms with a huff. "He's—he's still busy with other things at the moment. He told me that before I should be big on Broadway, then I should've been the star of Burlesque Lounge. Because he said that all stars start small. They shine the brightest later on, when all things are dark and there seems to be no hope."

"Jesse's gay, Berry", Santana rolled her eyes. "He prefers dicks over vaginas. Much less than actually considering yours."

"You consider all guys who are _unwilling_ to sleep with you as queers", Rachel shot back haughtily. "You're just hurt because he turned down your invitation to sleep with him because he's with _me_."

Quinn rolled her eyes. "You don't even know if he's playing with—"

"And this coming from a girl who sleeps around? That's what the Cheerios are for, right? You're the girls who sleep around with every _guy_ available. I'll bet that I'll ask all the guys in our staff and when I mention either of your names, or Brittany's, they're going to—"

The sound of a slap resonated over the soft commotion of the spectators enjoying the show from the stage. Everybody who was backstage was now eerily quiet, most of them with shocked expressions and dropped jaws, while others scuttled away, finding someone with authority to stop this mess.

Rachel stood still, the sting of the pain spreading numbness throughout her body, hurting her ego.

Brittany with her outstretched hand let it hang by her side loosely, unaware of the reactions she caused. After all, Brittany was known for being the sweet, if not a bit airheaded, member of the Cheerios. She never spoke ill of any one. Her one liner was her trademark, causing amusement and puzzlement at the same time. She was known as Quinn's blonde sister and Santana's kryptonite. She was a great dancer and one hell of a singer.

So her actually _slapping_ Rachel Berry...

...That was totally unexpected.

"Stop saying bad things about us", she whispered as she calmly stroke Santana's hair. Quinn didn't know what to say. Santana was at a total loss either. The rest could only hold their breath at Rachel's unpredictable response.

The cheek that was affected by such a harsh action was beginning to redden. With tearful eyes, Rachel could only manage to shoot the trio a baleful glance before picking up her things, throwing her coat on, and then storming out the back door that would make any diva proud. As she left, it was the moment that John was brought in. He looked as if he was totally exhausted by all the drama that happened during that same day.

"What? What happened?" He sighed. "Where's Rachel? She's up in three minutes."

When none of them answered, John groaned. "Really girls? Couldn't you keep this for another soap opera or something?"

* * *

><p>None of them noticed a tall figure enter another door. It was the one leading to the tiny office of the whole place.<p>

The man glanced around shiftily before closing it with an inaudible click.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Ugh. Just wanted to introduce these guys to you. Next chapter would be better. And I know, lots of unanswered questions. Especially since Kurt is not there. :/ What do you think? Tell me. :P**

**Drop me a line loves! **

**(And I'll make Kurt appear in the next chapter—**_**maybe**_**.)**

**I had fun writing Rachel as a total bitch though. And don't be surprised why Brittany acts like that. They have reasons. And yeah. Review.**

**SONG: Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend (Swing Cat Remix)**


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